Shoot to Thrill:: A Sherlock Holmes Love Story
by decemberxrain
Summary: As Holmes embarks on a journey greater than himself, he'll come across evil sorcerors and devious masterminds.Evangeline and Sherlock will need each other just to make it out alive. They'll both learn to live, love, and most importantly, SHOOT TO THRILL.
1. Always Nice to See You, Watson

It was a warm afternoon. The sky was all alight with sunshine, white light complimenting the rich blue sky that hung over London like a hen's wing. The gray smokestacks puffed out of the chimneys of the buildings. Street lanterns on each corner added rigidity to the colorful liveliness of the people below. Children played games together on the sidewalk while couples adorned in their Sunday best, colorful parasols bouncing about, waltzed together down the cobblestone roads as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped around the corner. It was on such streets that the normal daily lives of the London natives would go about, unaware of any danger or fear. However, there still remained those whose duty it was to keep said people in such an oblivious state. Among these were the officers of Scotland Yard, the local police force. As well, two gentlemen whose intelligence seemed to completely tower over that of the Scotland Yard officers would be included into these calculations. It was on these streets that these two gentlemen strut, chatting aimlessly.

As if in perfect synchronization, the men skittered side-by-side onto the sidewalk from the cobblestone road and under a faded wooden sign hung high above the door of a small shop. Barely legible upon the wood in gray chipping paint were the words "Wells Gunsmithery". The two men entered confidently met with the overpowering scent of gunpowder and brass. Removing their hats out of courtesy, the second man to enter, the tallest one with a head of neatly combed honey brown hair and a dashing brown mustache, shouted inward towards the back of the smithy in a polite but friendly voice. "Abram! Are you here? It's me, John Watson!"

From behind the furnace emerged a sweating and scorched young man of perhaps 30 years. He smiled brightly at the men, making a sloppy effort to maneuver around the machinery and tools lying about. He pulled out a cloth and wiped his face clean of sweat and ash, revealing his straight nose and warm dark eyes. He ruffled his short dark brown hair and, afterwards, swiped his burned hands clean of scorches. The men shook hands heartily before the man named Abram stepped backward and asked "So, wha' can I do for you today, eh boys?" His thick and jolly accent melted the straight lips off of the shorter man's mouth, revealing a small smirk that decorated his unshaven jaw. Watson answered with a smile. "Just a quick cleaning, please. I need her to shoot straight and true for tonight."

Abram nodded knowingly. "Righ', you two go' a dangerous case tonigh'. I'll fix you two up righ' now." The two men followed Abram over to a countertop where the gunsmith began working diligently on the Remmington pocket pistol that Watson had removed from his coat. As the two waited on a small wooden bench near the counter, Watson looked over to notice that his companion seemed to scan the shop for something, shaking his leg unconsciously. How rare it was for the man to act in this manner.

"Holmes, is something the matter?" Watson asked his partner, though he already half-knew what it was that made the great Sherlock Holmes behave with such unrest. Before the detective could answer, Abram cut in. "Lookin' for Evie? I'll ge' 'er for you. Evie!"

Sherlock's brown eyes widened. He reached his hand out towards Abram, perhaps hoping to grasp his shout and suppress it. "No, no…" He whispered to Abram sharply. It wasn't that Sherlock hated Evangeline. In fact, she and he were very dear friends but he hadn't wanted Evie or Watson to think that he came along just to see her.

Down a flight of steps near the counter, bounded a cheerful young woman. Her large bright smile seemed to be an exact replica of Abram's. Her hazel doe eyes glittered even in the darkness of the smithing room and her pale skin seemed to emanate its own light. Her pink lips widened into another grin as she set her sights on Watson and Sherlock. A beautiful woman she indeed was. A lady she most certainly was not. She was dressed entirely in men's clothing, from her white laborer shirt to her sable-brushed cotton trousers and black canvas Y-back braces to her black mid-calf boots. Her thick, straight blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail with a black ribbon. She approached Watson and Sherlock excitedly. "Sherlock! John! How are you both?" her voice tinkled gaily like a bell. She spoke perfectly unlike her brother who learned to speak in a country town while she grew up in London. She wrapped one arm around Watson's neck and one around Sherlock's and pulled them close to her in an embrace. Watson chuckled at her excitement. "We're both doing well. Thank you, Evie." She retracted her arms and flashed another smile. However, her smile disappeared quickly. "You both are here today. Do you have a dangerous case? You never come together unless it's important." Her shoulders dropped and her eyes were cast to the ground with concern.

Sherlock smirked and placed a warm hand upon her shoulder. "What's this? Evangeline Wells? Worried? About us? Have you no faith in us, dear?" She lifted her head to look into his face. Her lips curled upwards into a shy smile and a giggle. Sherlock chuckled as well and ruffled her golden hair playfully.

As they continued to wait, the three chatted excitedly about the ambush on Lord Blackwood that Sherlock and Watson were to attend. Sherlock was so positive that Lord Blackwood was behind the murders of late that he could no longer think of any other person it could possibly be but Blackwood. However, out of the group, none were more entertained and animated about the possible arrest than Evangeline. Abram, her protective brother, had kept her locked up tightly since the second murder of a young woman. "Can't 'ake any chances, Evie," he'd say. She was suffocating inside her own home. She needed to get out or she feared she'd go mad. Therefore, in order to make her cease her ridiculous whining, Sherlock had promised her that he'd take her out to celebrate the fall of "Lord Bloody Blackwood" – as Evangeline called him angrily.

It took a mere 20 minutes to clean the entire gun, handle to barrel and everywhere in between. Abram was a true master of firearms. Just as Watson reached for Sherlock's pocket to take some money for payment, Abram waved his hand nonchalantly. "No," he said, "you takin' down this murderer is paymen' enough." Watson looked utterly shocked. He felt a soft fist on his shoulder. Looking down, he saw it was Evangeline's gentle, reassuring touch. "Go get 'em, boys." She winked and smirked, mischief apparent in her hazel eyes. Watson smiled down lovingly at her before turning to Sherlock who nodded seeming to understand that it was time to go and meet the officers of Scotland Yard and plan. Evangeline gave out more embraces and smiles before they walked away, trenches fluttering, down that same lively street that they had sworn to themselves to protect.

Evangeline sat, knees to her chest, upon her window seat in her bedroom on the second floor. Her white slip strap fell off her shoulder as she shifted. The room was hot seeing as it was placed directly above the smithy and she could not longer sit still though her gaze remained fixed and focused upon the window of a home across the alley that her window overlooked. In the window was a young newlywed couple with their young child playing together. She smiled at how at peace the little family seemed on this night and, no doubt, it was a gorgeously warm night especially for March. She often would peer at the family through her window whenever she needed to think. How she wanted to start a family. Was she not at the age for starting families? She was nearly 29, a ripe old age for a woman without a husband. The young wife that she eyeballed turned to lock eyes with Evangeline, followed soon by her husband. The couple did not look surprised however. Rather, the wife hoisted her young child, barely old enough to walk, up onto her hip. She proceeded to whisper something to the little boy and lifted his sleeve to wave at Evangeline. Evangeline beamed at them and waved back to the young boy. You see, this family had noticed Evangeline's stares long before this night and felt there was no harm in her people-watching habit. They simply went about their business after a brief greeting. Tonight was no exception. The wife ran off towards the kitchen and the husband walked the boy over to the fireplace to relax. Her mind wandered once more the various subjects of interest before resting itself upon a question. "How are Sherlock and John doing now?"

She pondered this question intently, genuinely concerned with their well being. She began to perspire, not from the raging heat inside the room but from her worry. She had to help them if something went wrong. This was a serial killer, after all! Her furrowed eyebrows eased and her lips curved into a smirk. She knew just what to do.

The cold corridors of the catacombs were nearly enough to make one shiver with both a chill and fear. Each balcony, stacked one on top of the other, surmounted a hall of sorts. Torches glowed merrily on the pillars, guarded by tall figures in black cloaks, surrounding a stone platform. On said platform was a stone table, dominated by another hooded man, arms raised in what seems like praise and murmuring a chant lowly. A young woman in a white dress lied unconscious upon the table, a dagger resting beside her. From the lowest balcony, Sherlock Holmes's eyes flashed across the scene for any minute details that could help him dissect the situation. As he surveyed the area, unbeknownst to him, a large man crept behind him, coming in for an attack. However, he let out a grunt as he fell unconscious due to a chokehold delivered with quickness. Sherlock turned, not a bit surprised at the attack, and smiled before extending his hand for a shake. The man took it and flashed a smile back.

"Always nice to see you, Watson."


	2. Beautiful, Little Fool

Watson and Sherlock, after removing their hats at the same time as a pair of twins would, returned their eyes to the events ensuing below. Together, they analyzed the scene. Sherlock quickly rushed off before a concrete plan was made against the harsh protesting whispers of Watson. Rolling his eyes and heaving a great sigh of frustration, Watson dusted off his gray trench coat, grabbed his cane that he had previously leaned against the stone railing, and scurried after Sherlock, praying he didn't either make a fool of himself or die in the process.

Sherlock emerged from behind an immense pillar on the lowest level and, walking casually up behind the hooded men, bludgeoned each on the head with two nightsticks with complete ease. He was, quite obviously, well versed in the art of fighting and defense for not one hit ever so much as grazed Holmes's body. However, this is not such an entirely amazing feat for a man who, in his free time, was boxed into a ring with another shirtless sweating man, throwing punches for money.

Just a moment's pause was enough for Sherlock to notice that the chants still continued and the young girl over whom the man was chanting was pointing a long thin dagger at her own heart. She convulsed violently, coming close to stabbing herself. Sherlock coolly but swiftly leaped up beside the woman and grasped her arm firmly as she began to pull the dagger downwards. Watson had taken the liberty to complete Sherlock's unfinished business with the remainder of the cloaked strangers. The girl dropped the dagger and fell motionless when the hooded man stopped his chanting to ridicule Holmes for not waiting for the Scotland Yard. The hood was removed, revealing none other than the infamous Lord Blackwood, known practitioner of black magic and, now, known serial murderer. His deep brown eyes and crooked-toothed smile echoed an evil that tainted his soul fully. He did not seem to fear Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard, or even the rope to which this villain would certainly be headed. Watson's fury soon took control. He dashed toward Blackwood, full intention of bashing his head in with his cane blazing in the doctor's once kind blue eyes. Sherlock stepped in front of Watson as Blackwood turned to smirk at his attack. Holmes latched onto Watson's arm with a vice grip. "Watson!" he shouted, "Don't!" Watson stopped just short of the end of a transparent pike of glass extending from Blackwood. Watson, realizing that Holmes had just saved his life, panted with horror. "How did you-?" Sherlock tapped the glass with his nightstick, shattering the lethal weapon instantly. "Because I was looking for it." Sherlock explained.

The Scotland Yard officers soon rushed out from the entrance and overtook the criminals like ants on sugar, cuffing them and shoving them out to the carriage. As Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson spoke, no one noticed the single cloaked figure that slipped out a back door, dashing for quick freedom. The figure ran through a long brick-laid hall, lit only by one torch and climbed a winding staircase. A large plank of wood covered completely with dust and cobwebs that was soon revealed to be a cellar door blocked off the stone stairs. The man pushed the doors open and stumbled out onto the cobblestone of a lonely alleyway. He closed the doors, gently so as not to alert the Scotland Yard, and crept softly down the wall.

He was halfway to freedom when, from behind a pile of crates, a hooded creature materialized and sprinted towards the man. Startled at the creature's speed and agility, he did not run. Rather, he leaped up and began climbing a rusted iron ladder that hung above for the purpose of fire escape. After climbing the first rungs, he suspected that perhaps he had been imagining things and the creature did not exist or perhaps the creature was merely an animal. Still, he scaled the ladder believing that this was his ticket to escape. However, his dreams of freedom crashed when he felt vibrations move from the ladder into his palms and a tight squeezing grip upon his foot. He turned to look downward only to be met with the same creature he had hoped he'd escaped. It was incredible. Even as he struggled to continue upward, the character on his ankle seemed to have absolutely no trouble at all. Their grip neither tightened nor loosened and their breathing remained steady and soft. Was this a demon? What was this being that looked human but whose abilities were so fantastical that he feared he was dreaming? If this truly was simply a dream, he felt like crying out for someone to awaken him. Yet as he continued thrashing about, he felt the grip loosen slightly. He took this chance to kick at the person and finish his mount to the top of the wall. He cared neither to wonder if the being was still on the ladder nor to wonder why his left shoe felt so loose. He had escaped. That was all he cared about.

After shooing a photographer away for the third time, Sherlock and Watson began making their way towards the exit of the hall. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, threw his arm in front of Watson, and placed a finger to his chapped lips. Silence. Then, a soft distant thud. Holmes and Watson's eyes met, communicating their suspicions. The two raced to the opposite end of the hall, Lestrade shouting after them, confusion evident in his voice. Down the back hallway and up the stairwell they ripped and tore open the cellar doors, nearly tearing them from their places on the hinges. They stood together in the seemingly empty alleyway. Both knew just what had happened. Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, completely frustrated. Sherlock began his curses more at himself than anyone else. Suddenly, the pair heard a small sound, almost like a newborn's sigh.

"Sherlock, John?" it seemed to say.

Turning to the opening of the alley, they noted a cloaked human hanging from a rung on a fire escape. It struggled to unhook the broken rung that had latched onto the side of their right black lace-up boot. The rest of the body hung limply after reaching for the boot and failing. Watson and Holmes slowly and suspiciously made their way over to the hanging person.

With his long brown cane, Watson pushed the figure's hood out of their face. Blonde braids fell out of the cloth and a familiar sheepish smile beamed up at them. "Evie? What on earth are you doing here?" Watson asked, surprised and slightly irritated at the girl for interrupting their investigation.

She shrugged her shoulders and explained, "I was so worried about you two that I came to help you. Besides, you two can't have all the fun." Her cheeks were quite rosy from both embarrassment at her predicament and the blood rushing to her head.

"How long have you been there?" Watson inquired, genuinely curious. Sherlock interjected, "I'd say about 2 minutes. Her veins haven't yet begun to bulge." Evangeline could not tell if Holmes was infuriated with her or holding in a laugh. He was completely unreadable. This often left Evangeline extremely frustrated and angry. She found it unfair that Sherlock could read others like a book while she was left to guess.

Her silent inquiries about the detective's mood were answered just moments later when Sherlock angrily sighed, "Did we not specifically instruct you to remain inside your home? Blackwood could've escaped and there you'd be – outside, alone, on the streets of London with a serial murderer on the loose that has a particularly keen appetite for young maids!" Sherlock's mumbling grew into a strained growl. The night was quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Then, "Well, you were right about one thing!" Evangeline reasoned, "You let one get away. I tried to catch him for you but he was simply far too quick while climbing this ladder. I would've been able to pull him down had this bloody rung not broken." She irritably kicked the broken rung that clung to her bootlaces. A screech and sudden jerk downward made her squeal in fright. "I'm getting a little dizzy." She iterated in a sort of daze.

Sherlock and Watson eyed each other before Watson began unclipping each lace from the rung that held the woman upside down due to Sherlock's aura of irritation. He was most obviously not about to help Evangeline at all. He'd much rather see her stay upside down all night. She had not followed his instructions and so she deserved the consequences. No one broke Sherlock Holmes's rules. No one.

With a hand on her back for support, Watson released the final lace. Her legs plummeted to the ground like lead weights and Watson held her upright. The impact made her whimper slightly. Her cheeks began losing their rosy coloration and fading into her original paleness. Unbeknownst to her, Watson turned to give Holmes, who had leaned against a wall to smoke his pipe, an annoyed look. Why wasn't he helping? How lazy this man was! Sherlock retorted with a roll of his eyes.

The group arrived back to the gunsmithery. Evangeline ran down the alley between the shop and the home of the little family. There, beneath her window, was a rope made of fabric down which she slipped to escape the suspicions of her brother, Abram.

Sherlock's cheeks flushed with angry blood. "Abram doesn't even know you've gone out?!" he nearly shouted. Not only had she disobeyed his instructions, she had done it right under her older brother's nose. If he were to see them now, he'd believe that Watson and he had helped Evangeline sneak out. The notion that a gunsmith would hold a grudge against them made him shiver. Oh, the numerous ways in which Abram could inflict pain upon him with his plethora of weaponry.

Evangeline waved her hand nonchalantly. "You worry too much, Sherlock. He'll never know I was gone!" Her pride angered Holmes even more. Her mischievous smile taunted him. He hated that smile. But why? He loved that smile for all other occasions in which she had tricked someone or made one feel foolish. But never had she used that smile on him. No, he hated that smile when it was directed at him. He hated being afraid of the consequences for his actions. Never before had he been worried about consequences for it had only been himself and Watson up until that night. Unknowingly, she had involved herself in something much bigger than that alleyway or that rope she grasped in her callused hands or the night or even that smile. Even his hatred for that smile. "What a fool she is. A beautiful, little fool…" Sherlock thought. The two men watched as she awkwardly fumbled through the window, signaling their time to go home.

_Bang!_

Sherlock heard Watson and his latest patient outside his door, mumbling about the gunfire. The creak of the stairs sounded. The creak was louder and longer meaning the pudgy and slower moving elderly man would be the culprit. He had finally left. Another mumbling caught his attention outside the door. Mrs. Hudson, no doubt. Her high heels clicked about irritably.

_Bang!_

He heard the two outside jump at the sudden gunshot and smirked. Watson stormed into the room of clutter and disorder. "Permission to enter the armory?"

"Granted. I'm working on a device to silence the sound of a gunshot." Sherlock mused, staring intently at the barrel of his revolver.

"Well, it's not working." Watson replied, making his way over to the curtains. Against Holmes's overly dramatic protests, Watson drew the curtains to let in the bright sunlight, only illuminating the mountains of filth in the room. Watson sat down hearing Sherlock's demands for work, going through mail that Holmes had neglected to open and offering up ideas for cases. "Oh! Here's one! Lady Radford reports that her emerald bracelet has gone missing." He tried to act mildly intrigued. Sherlock quickly responded. "Insurance swindle. Lord Radford likes fast women and slow ponies."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in with tea. Sherlock studied her for an instant before remarking, "I'm more interested in the strange case of the absentee landlord. I've been noting Mrs. Hudson's comings and goings and goings and comings with great interest, and they appear…most sinister." Sherlock whispered the last words mockingly to Mrs. Hudson who gave him a strange look of amusement and boredom. "I've brought tea." She reminded him. Sherlock leaned forward and wrinkled his nose. "Is it poisoned, Nanny?" Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in amusement at Holmes's accusation and decided to take a jab right back at him. "There's enough of that in you already." She began to pluck objects off the table to make room for the tray when Sherlock proclaimed, "Don't touch! Everything is in its proper place as per usual, Nanny." The landlady turned on her heel and waltzed towards the door. She looked to her feet and noticed a spotted bulldog lying motionless at her feet. "Oh, he's killed the dog. Again." She stepped over the dog and walked out.

Watson sighed in annoyance. "What have you done to Gladstone now?" Sherlock's habitual experiments on a dog that wasn't even his perturbed him to no end. "I was simply testing a new anesthetic. He doesn't mind." Sherlock explained as if the dog had told him those words himself.

"Holmes, you've been in this room for two weeks. I insist you have to get out!" Watson pleaded. Sherlock stumbled over to the window and sat in a chair, staring out of the window begrudgingly. "No, there is absolutely nothing of interest for me out there, on earth, at all…" he murmured dazed.

"So you're free this evening?" Watson asked, hopeful.

" Absolutely."

"Dinner?" Watson proposed.

"Wonderful."

"The Royale?"

"My favorite"

"Mary's coming." Watson added quickly.

Sherlock stopped for a moment. "…Not available."

"You're meeting her, Holmes!" Watson demanded.

"Have you proposed yet?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer.

"No, I haven't found the right ring." Watson sighed with drooped shoulders.

"Then it's not official." Sherlock concluded with a smirk.

"It's happening, whether you like it or not! 8:30, the Royale, wear a jacket!" Watson commanded. "You wear a jacket." Sherlock shot back like a child. The doctor swiftly made his way out of the room, only to bump into a familiar not-so-perky blonde.

"Oh, good morning, Evie." Watson paused in the doorway, intrigued by the sudden appearance of the girl.

She sighed. "Good morning, Watson." Something was quite strange about her. She had used his last name rather than calling him John. Her usual energetic personality seemed to be washed away by a wave of either exhaustion or disappointment. She stumbled into the room, completely ignoring the confused eyes of Sherlock Holmes, peering from beneath his hat, and threw herself face-down onto a sofa. The numerous blankets hanging sloppily on the head cushion fell onto her, burying her in an abyss of cloth and negativity. Watson and Sherlock exchanged odd glances before both slowly approached her, as if she would leap up and devour them at any moment. With a small coat rack, Sherlock gently nudged her side and drew back at her long drawn out groan. The two looked perplexed as they listened to mumbles and groans from the pillow into which her face was buried that must've been English to her but complete gibberish to them. Holmes let out a sigh and leaned close to the pillow to understand her words. Lowly, he whispered into her ear, "Dear, I can't understand a word you're saying." She quieted and looked into his brown eyes with hazel bloodshot ones. She was most obviously exhausted.

"I just want to sleep." She remarked after a few moments of staring. She propped her chin up on the pillow and grumbled, "You were right, you know. Again. You're always right." Sherlock's ears perked up at this. If there was one this he loved more than a good case, it was being told that he was brilliant. He ran his fingers over her blonde locks, beckoning her to continue. She turned her head and rested her cheek upon the pillow, gazing once more at Sherlock. "Abram was waiting for me in my bedroom last night. I was caught. And I had to stay up and clean every gun in the shop." She had come all this way just to complain about her punishment. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. She had gotten her just desserts. Abram had caught her and if he was lucky, she'd never pull another stunt again.

He touched her cheek with his fingertips, making her look to him, and smiled sympathetically at her. What a child she was sometimes. He gave her cheek one gentle pat and stood, "You'll get over it, dear." A shadow of a smile played on her lips. Sherlock always knew just what to say.


	3. Discombobulate

Mrs. Hudson, after noticing the presence of a guest, especially one that she particularly liked, returned with finger sandwiches and a loving pat on the head. Evie gingerly took one, still not in the mood for eating but not wanting to be disrespectful, and nibbled on it mindlessly. After 3 or 4 cups of strong Earl Grey and some minutes of listening to Sherlock moan about his boredom, a smile crept back onto Evie's cheeks. As strange and unusual it was at the time, Evie loved listening to the detective's constant complaining and irritable chatter. She felt it brought her more clues to unraveling the greatest mystery of all. The Mystery of Sherlock Holmes. How he thought. Why he thought. What he thought. These all contributed to her detective story. She felt that the longer he spoke, the more challenging it became to close the case.

As she stared into the foggy liquid in her teacup, a sudden crash awoke her. She jumped and looked over towards Sherlock, wondering if he had heard the loud noise disturb the comfortable morning. Not only had he heard it, but also he was the source. He had just kicked over a large mound of books resting near his slouched figure, grumpily sunken into his velvet armchair. "I simply cannot believe that we hadn't had the back alley on surveillance. Don't you see? This just shows how utterly incompetent those fools down at Scotland Yard are." He muttered more to himself than anyone else. Evie knew that he had been speaking of last night's events and how one of the criminals had escaped through the back alley. She grew frustrated once more knowing that she could've been useful to Sherlock by catching the culprit. If only that rusted rung hadn't broken, she would've been something of a hero, she fancied. Rather, she became the fool. The complete upside-down fool.

Suddenly, she remembered what she had forgotten last night to mention. She brought her teacup down on its saucer with a great clatter of porcelain and stood with determination flaring in her eyes and a confident smile upon her lips. From her pocket in her trousers she pulled a long black string. The ends shone in the faint light. She trotted over to the grumpy Sherlock who eyed it warily. The intricate gray designs on the thin string made him turn his head completely in interest. Proudly, she placed the string into Sherlock's open palm and stepped back. He examined it ever closer. She could've sworn he smiled to himself as he sniffed the mud splatters on the ends of the string. Leaning back calmly, he spoke. "You know, Evie, I seem to have completely forgotten why I could've possibly have been so furious with you last night." He smirked up at her from beneath the rim of his hat. She bit her lip to hide her grin. She had become the hero after all!

The string that Sherlock held and examined was, indeed, the left shoelace of the escaped criminal. Evangeline had clasped onto it firmly whilst chasing him and never let go, pulling it altogether from the shoe, hence why he had trouble keeping his shoe on while running. Evangeline felt utterly brilliant. She decided to allow Holmes to think on his new evidence. Bidding him goodbye, he stood to show her to the door. Before shutting the door behind her, she turned and spoke. "I'm simply glad I was able to assist you somehow and that it wasn't such a waste." She mumbled the final words in embarrassment but was cut off by a quick peck on her forehead before she could revel in her self-pity any longer. His lips still pressed firmly to her right temple, he mumbled into her forehead, "That'll do, dear. That'll do." She smiled to herself. Sherlock truly was the dearest friend she had.

The shouts were deafening and the smell of sweat, smoke, and booze could taint one's sense of smell forever. Hordes of middle-aged men, dirty, missing teeth, and sweating from the close proximity, screeched jeers and insults at each other. The overly rouged women on their hips, with hair piled on top of heads and breasts barely covered beneath too-tight corsets, smiled at the rowdy atmosphere. A single lamp hung from overhead, lighting the room dimly. Around a wooden circular frame the men were crowded, gazing inward toward the two shirtless, glistening men in the ring. The two men, one being Sherlock Holmes, stared at one another intensely. Their muscles were pulsing with anxiety and eagerness. Suddenly, the larger of the two charged viciously at the small frame of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes made a valiant attempt to dodge and land a hit upon the other fighter's ribs but he was neither powerful nor quick enough. The other man's fist connected terribly with Sherlock's cheek, knocking him to the ground. Sherlock was well acquainted with the rust-colored dust by this moment in the fight. He had never faced someone so large and ruthless.

As he pulled himself to his feet, he used the wooden frame for support, catching a glimpse of a white handkerchief with a red monogram hanging tauntingly in front of him.

_I.A._

He knew those cursive letters. He frantically looked within the crowd for any sign of the owner of the initials. His eyes landed upon a mysteriously gorgeous woman whose bright red jacket interrupted the monotonous earthy colors of the people around. A black hat was perched upon her pinned up dark curls. From beneath a wide, pale forehead, her eyes trailed from the man she was speaking with to meet the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He felt a sudden lurch in his stomach and a longing in his heart to speak to her. He rushed past the man who was waiting for him to recover to throw another punch.

"That's it, big man. You've won. Congratulations." Holmes forfeited.

"Oi! We ain't done yet!" the man yelled at Holmes's back. Seeing that Holmes continued away from him, he spit. The spit splattered upon Holmes's head. He froze in anger.

"This mustn't register on an emotional level," he thought. He closed his eyes, going over the strategy to defeat the man, McMurdo as his supporters in the crowd called him. "In summary: ears ringing, jaw fractured, three ribs cracked, four broken, diaphragm hemorrhaging. Physical recovery: six weeks. Full psychological recovery: six months. Capacity to spit at back of head: neutralized." With this thought, Sherlock whirled around and walked casually to the handkerchief once more and wiped the saliva from his hair. Suddenly, he tossed the fabric in front of McMurdo's face, blocking his vision. McMurdo, in a frantic state, blindly jabbed at Holmes. The jab was deflected easily as Holmes passed his fist across McMurdo's jaw. While McMurdo stumbled backwards, Holmes acted quickly by slapping his hands over McMurdo's ears. "Discombobulate…" he whispered to himself as a reminder. The woman's bright lips smirked and her green eyes sparkled mischievously. She watched as McMurdo's haymaker was blocked and countered with a fist to his side. McMurdo, in a last ditch effort to protect himself, sent a left jab flying that was blocked to his dismay. Sherlock crossed his fist into McMurdo's chin and, once more, to the jaw. He struck McMurdo in his already cracked ribs, shattering them, and socked his side again. His pummeling brought him back to his jaw, dislocating it. Finally, a heel kick to his stomach sent McMurdo soaring into the frame, breaking it instantly.

The world went silent. Staring. Gawking faces watched as Sherlock dug through a man's pocket, pulling from it his winnings, plucked a bottle of whiskey from the bar, and jogged up the stairs. The woman was no longer there and he had no reason to stay.

A loud and ferocious crack woke Sherlock with a start. At eye level were the blankets from the sofa and his gaudy Afghan rug. Slowly, he eyed the filth that gathered beneath the furniture. He must've been back home. But how? Another crack interrupted his thoughts. He rolled over steadily, trying not to move his aching neck. A woman began speaking smoothly. If only she didn't speak so loudly. His head ached enough as it was. He propped himself up staring stunned at the beautiful woman whom he had recognized from his boxing match. He wasn't quite positive what it was she rambled on about in her silky voice. He was more occupied with hurriedly fixing his surroundings to not lead her to any sudden conclusions. Holmes knew well that she had already seen his secret workings such as the portrait of said woman he had smiling up at him from his desk. Yet, in his panic, he covered the picture and casually began plucking aimlessly at his out-of-tune violin strings trying to conceal his recent fright. But she was not only beautiful, but clever as well. She knew just the buttons to push.

From her aimless chatter of delicious walnuts she wandered to a more personal subject. How bold she was. "While I was setting the table I found this – a file with my name on it." She flipped through the various articles within. Not a single picture. Not a single name.

"I was simply studying your methods should the authorities ask me to hunt you down." Sherlock lied. "Ah…" she muttered full of sarcasm. "But I don't see my name on any of these articles." She meandered forward, dark eyes mischeiviously flashing as her deep red lips pressed the detective for a straight answer.

"But your signature was clear." Sherlock finished thus ending the interrogation. She slipped the articles back into the file and closed it, eyes never leaving Holmes's face. Sherlock's orbs glinted across her deeply cut pink neckline. He reached behind her neck, pulling upward a gold chain onto which an enormous yellow diamond sat, sparkling in the light. "Is that the Maha-Rajah's missing diamond or just another souvenir?" Sherlock smirked knowingly at the woman. Exasperated she pulled the diamond down to be covered by her dress. "Let's not dwell on the past." The two exchanged an odd stare before she motioned to the tea table. "Shall we?"

She cleared off a chair for herself. "Now by the looks of it, you're between jobs."

"Yes, and you, between husbands?"

She smiled ever so slightly and sighed as she sat. "Oh, he was boring and jealous and ignored." Sherlock began pouring tea into the teacups that sat patiently on the table. Dreamily, she noted. "I'm Irene Adler again." She sipped her tea daintily while Holmes stared at it warily as if he could no longer trust anything while she was around. Even tea that he had poured himself. The truth was that he was right. Irene Adler was a con artist. A mercenary. A world class criminal. The only one to best the great detective of 221B Baker Street. The only one Holmes ever cared for.

She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "Now, I need you to find someone." She tucked her hand into the neckline of her dress. Sherlock, being on his guard, swiftly took up her wrist in his grasp, ready to throw a punch. She stared, obviously amused by his behavior. "Why are you always so suspicious?" she inquired with a smirk.

"Should I answer chronologically or alphabetically?"

"Careful not to cut yourself on this lethal envelope." Her sarcasm seemed to drip from her heavily rouged lips and into the tea, poisoning it. The two had the strangest relationship one could ever find on this world or any other. How they enjoyed making the other miserable but their love was evident. They spoke more. Suspicion mounting by the second. Eventually, she rose, as if in a hurry, and bid Sherlock farewell as she briskly walked down the stairs.

"Hold the door, please!" she called to the young doctor that was just entering the house. Without another thought, he stretched the door open for her. She disappeared down the street. Watson obliviously climbed the first flight of stairs, only to be stopped on the platform by a panicky Holmes. Holmes threw open the window but was cut short by Watson's inquiring voice. "Holmes, what are you doing?" The scruffy man turned to face his friend. "Nothing." His face was unchanged except for a larger bulge of a nose in place of his straight and small one. Watson seemed taken aback but the change. Holmes had either discovered a long lost allergy or he was in disguise. The latter seemed more likely. "Are you wearing a fa-" Watson began. "False nose?" Sherlock finished. "No."

Watson didn't believe a word of it. Sherlock snatched up the brown robe and scarf that were hanging from Watson's arm as the doctor turned and pointed towards the door accusingly. "Tell me that that wasn't – " Holmes leaped up onto the window sill. "It wasn't." he replied before Watson could finish. He jumped from the window, landing nimbly upon the tin roof of a shed below. "Holmes!" Watson shouted. "Where are you going?" From that shed, Holmes hopped onto the wooden top of a soot box. Unfortunately for him, the wood had rotten and before he could yell, he fell into the piles of soot inside. "Watson!" Holmes shouted for help. "Watson!" Watson sighed; placing his hat onto his head once more and promptly closed the window on another one of Holmes's cries for help. The doctor continued on his way up the stairs.


	4. Data,Data,Data

Holmes slid into an alley, obviously in a rush, but retreated behind the corner when he caught a glimpse of a ravishing young beauty strutting toward his position. He watched her with great interest as a dust-covered Cockney approached her with a bouquet of red roses.

" 'Ey sweet'eart. Got some flowers fer ya. I'll cut ya a deal 'cause you're so pretty." He smiled with crooked, dirty teeth. She returned the smile with a sparkling one of her own and dipped down to smell the roses. "Oh! My lucky day!"

Another man crept up behind her. The two were most definitely thieves. Little did they know that they were in the presence of world-class criminal, Irene Adler. She stopped at the cool breath of the second man on her neck. From beneath the sleeve of her pink bustled dress slid a small nightstick. She whirled around, smashing the stick into the thief's cheek. Once, twice, thrice, and one last pound on top of the man's head sent him unconscious to the ground. She pulled out a knife and cut open the first man's brown vest, revealing his striped shirt and braces. She pushed him against the wall viciously. "Move!" she growled. She cupped her hand over the man's mouth and placed the knife against his neck. Slowly, she pulled open his vest to reveal a pocket. In it, the man's wallet. She sarcastically snatched it and wrapped her arm around the bouquet before leaving the two men dumbfounded. The thieves had just been thieved.

"That's the Irene I knew." Holmes muttered, satisfied. He quickly took a detour around a block of buildings, stumbling all the way along crates and cobblestone.

He emerged at the square, mere seconds behind Irene whose bright bustle could easily be spotted among the rest of the gray world. She swiftly flew past the gypsies that were performing in the square. Holmes dashed through a gypsy shop tent, secretly plucking an eyepatch from a table and slipping it on. After making it through the square, he veered off course down a series of back alleys. He sped out of the last alley onto the street and straight into the side of a carriage. Gaining his composure, he rose from the ground and appeared in the carriage window once more. Spotting the lovely Irene Adler inside the carriage, he smirked at his own brilliance. He had successfully predicted her route.

He turned to the other man in the carriage. Unfortunately, this certain being was engulfed in the shadows. Holmes, in a gruff, heavy voice, asked the man for money as if he were a beggar. Quick as a flash, the man's arm extended. His leather-gloved hand was a mere 6 inches from Holmes's false nose and even more surprising was the contraption that slipped out from the man's coat sleeve. Perched proudly upon the bending machine was the smallest gun the sleuth had ever seen. Compact, unseen, and effective, this was quite ingenious. With his hands raised in defense, Holmes backed away from the carriage mumbling his apologies. Despite being frightened away from the carriage, Holmes smiled to himself. He had deduced vital details about Miss Adler's mysterious employer.

It was three days later. A rather chilly afternoon breeze had kept Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Evangeline Wells inside the men's humble abode. Sherlock, bored, twisted the black shoelace about his fingertips while Watson glanced over the day's paper. Evie used a soft, horsehair brush to run through her long blonde tresses. Her hair had gotten quite long in the past months. From her shoulder blades it continued to grow until this particular day when the ends playfully stroked the arch of her back. With all of her locks slung over her left shoulder, she relaxed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling as she combed her fingers through the curled ends. Suddenly, into the room barged a tall, mustachioed constable in a state of pure unrest. Holmes smirked.

Watson and Holmes arrived, irritated that Evangeline straggled along, at a large and majestic cemetery. As they approached a scene of chaos and business down a dusty pathway, Evie shrank behind Holmes and the doctor both from shyness and from an uneasy feeling that overtook her mind as she stared up at the towering stone angels and crosses. Even though she fancied herself to be extremely boyish for the period, she was absolutely terrified of ghost stories quite like the one she had followed her friends to investigate. Why she had tried so desperately to convince them to allow her, she had not a clue anymore. "I'll be waiting in the carriage." She murmured to Holmes and turned to leave. Holmes rolled his eyes and pulled her back by the collar of her coat and wordlessly pulled her towards Inspector. "If you went through so much trouble to come, you're staying." He reasoned. She whimpered behind him.

"You took your time, Holmes." Lestrade spoke from the shattered stone tomb. Sherlock jokingly responded, "And on the third day…"

Lestrade, Watson, and Sherlock discussed the case at hand. Apparently, a witness had seen Lord Blackwood walking about the cemetery the night before. This was, of course, incredibly odd seeing as Lord Blackwood had been hanged 3 months prior. Dr. Watson himself, who was the supervising practitioner, pronounced Blackwood dead.

Both Evangeline and Holmes were watching from the audience when the lord spoke his final words.

"Lord Henry Blackwood, you have been tried and convicted for the practice of black magic, and the horrible murders of five innocent young women. For which crime you have been sentenced to death. Have you anything final to say?" asked the Governor.

"Death…is only the beginning." Replied Blackwood before being hooded. Evie glared at his smirk. However, as he flopped about, fighting the pull of the rope, Evie couldn't bear to watch so she buried her face in her palms as Sherlock draped a comforting arm over her shoulder.

The three men twittered on about ghosts and dead men, things that made Evie quite uncomfortable, so she simply watched the other Scotland Yarders chat amongst themselves. As she stared, her eyes followed the stray rocks that littered the ground to the tomb. Her curiosity rose.

With a dozen nervous eyes watching her back, she scooted toward the large stone pile blocking the entrance to the tomb. She picked away at small rocks to reveal a tiny hole through which she gazed into the eerie darkness. Reaching her long arm through the hole in hopes of feeling what might be inside. She half expected to reach out and touch the warm skin and crooked smile of a living Lord Blackwood. Alas, there was no crooked smile or warmth. She suddenly felt a small sensation on top of her hand as if a small spider was crawling along her pale skin. She wasn't normally afraid of spiders but the sudden touch startled her already racing heart. She let out a small scream and, in one swift motion, withdrew her arm from the hole, slapped the creature on her hand and fell back onto the gravel.

A blushing Evangeline rose from the ground and dashed over to where Watson was examining the groundkeeper in shock, trying her best to ignore the snickering Scotland Yarders and Sherlock Holmes. Watson sympathetically ushered her closer to show her how one might tell symptoms of catatonic behavior. Utterly fascinated, she remained engrossed in the man's words until he returned to Sherlock's side, leaning over a dusty black casket. Evie felt her stomach churn so she began cooing kindly to the catatonic "witness" in an attempt to calm him. The old groundskeeper curiously inched towards the scene of Scotland Yarders, Dr. Watson, and Sherlock Holmes gazing in shock into the open coffin. Evie followed, unsure of what resided inside. Watson lifted his head and spoke to Evie, "Well, looks like we've found Holmes's ginger midget." Evie stopped and frowned at Watson. "A ginger midget? Stop playing around, John!" He shook his head and nodded toward the casket. Slowly, she wiggled through the crowd beside Watson, driven to prove that there was no such person in the casket. Her eyes widened and she cocked her head to the side, no longer afraid but rather purely intrigued by the little man in the coffin. In a matter-of-fact way as if it was an obvious discovery, she flatly stated, "Oh, look… a ginger midget."

The groundskeeper stepped toward the crowd. "When the dead walk, then the living shall fill these coffins." He prophesized. Evie and Sherlock locked eyes. He sighed and rolled his orbs before snatching up the dead man's watch, assuring Lestrade that he'll keep him updated, and strutting away down the same road they came by. Watson and Evangeline nervously glanced at one another before following. Evie mindlessly began daydreaming about the possible black magic that could've risen Blackwood from the grave. Completely leaving reality for her thoughts and pondering, she heard Sherlock remark, "Data, data, data. I cannot make bricks without clay."

The trio walked together down a small cobblestone street, Evangeline struggling to keep up with the taller men at her sides. Sherlock rolled the pocketwatch over in his palms, looking for clues. He stopped at the sight of crudely struck initials on the back of the watch. Watson leaned forward to get a glimpse of the letters. "Perhaps a pawnbroker's initials?" he offered up. The two noticed, also, small scratches upon the front. Watson suggested that the midget was a frequent drinker. Holmes nodded his head like a proud mother whose daughter has just brought home a handsome husband. "Very good, Watson. It appears you're developing deductive powers of your own." Evie lowers her head shamefully, a glint of pink on her cheeks. She wasn't nearly as brilliant as these two. She couldn't even deduce simple things about the watch. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her as she raised her head. "If we find the pawnbroker, we could find out the midget's address, yes?" Sherlock grins at her shyness and simply states, "Exactly, Evie. Exactly Correct." She bit her tongue, trying to hold back her smile, as she thought," What a child I am. Always pining for praise." She giggled to herself before being halted by Watson. Before the three was the pawnbroker's shop whose initials were scraped into the watch. They all had passed this shop on many occasions but never had they truly noticed it.

Beneath a canopy the three passed to get to the pawnbroker's door. A stout gypsy woman offered a palm reading to Watson through her missing front teeth. He promptly ignored the woman and stared down toward his feet, hoping she would catch the hint. He never did trust gypsies. Once more, only more forceful, she shouted after Watson, " 'ey! You really need to hear wha' I got'a tell ya!" He ignored the old woman's pleas. She finally revealed her knowledge. "You're to be married!" Evangeline and Watson turned in shock. Sherlock's lips curved upward in a slight smirk that was barely noticeable to the untrained eye. But Evie's eyes were well accustomed to Sherlock's quirks. The gypsy began disclosing information about Watson that only a dear friend would know. Evie caught Holmes's eye with her questioning looks. His smirk became more apparent and he raised an index finger to his lips with a mischievous sparkle in his brown eyes. Evie's mouth gaped open at Sherlock's audacity, unsure of whether to giggle or scold him. Despite the side of her that told her that it was wrong to trick a dear friend into believing in such superstitions as palm-reading, she couldn't stop her small smile from forming and her nose from wrinkling as it usually does when she was forced to hold her uncontrollable laughter. Sherlock, seeing Evie's wrinkled nose and timid smile as she gazed between the gypsy and Watson, smiled and cast his eyes to the road but once again found himself glancing at her. He always had found the way she wrinkled her nose when she was smiling an undeniably adorable aspect that seemed to attract his eyes to her face like a magnet.

His ears, however, paid no mind to Evie as they heard the gypsy mumbling about a fat Mary, doilies and print wallpaper. Holmes echoed her and added, "And what of the warts?" The gypsy nodded solemnly and added a beard to the lie. Watson's brows furrowed in irritation. He realized at that moment that it was one of Sherlock's setups to protest his marriage to Mary. Watson pulls Sherlock away with Evie hurriedly scuttling after them. "Have you no shame, Holmes?" the good doctor interrogated. Sherlock defended his decision but was proved wrong by Watson's purchase of an engagement ring mere moments later. While Watson and Evie were searching for the perfect ring, Sherlock had casually asked for the midget's address. His smug grin beamed with success.

They had set off down the road to investigate the previous residence of the ginger midget whose name, Evie found out, was Reordan. Watson stopped, informing Sherlock that he couldn't accompany him due to a dinner date with Mary and her parents. A slight air of disappointment in his voice, Sherlock agreed and continued on with Evie at his side, quietly wondering what could be lurking inside Reordan's abode.


End file.
